


All the Sins You Never Had the Courage to Commit

by notkingyet



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Yuleporn, bottom!ethan, top!dorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notkingyet/pseuds/notkingyet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brona had feared Ethan would run off with another woman. Little did anyone realize the "other woman" was a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Sins You Never Had the Courage to Commit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fadedink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedink/gifts).



> Much thanks to [Zoi no miko](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zoi_no_miko) for beta-reading!

He could have blamed the absinthe battling the two shots of whiskey in his stomach.  
  
He could have blamed the opera, or the theatre before it, or the ratting in-between.  
  
But he knew none of those constituted a rational explanation for why he'd lunged across the room for his host's throat. And he sure as hell couldn't explain why he'd kissed him when he knew he'd meant to bite.  
  
Adrenaline gave him the strength to tear Mr. Gray's shirt from his shoulders. Confusion left him standing there with slack arms, waiting for Mr. Gray's judgment with hot tears of shame trickling down his cheeks.  
  
Fortunately, rather than calling the police, Mr. Gray unbuttoned Ethan's shirt and kissed him in turn. Ethan was well sorry when he pulled away.  
  
"Mr. Gray--" he began to protest, his voice hoarse and hushed.  
  
"Dorian," said Mr. Gray with a quiet laugh. "Call me Dorian. It seems absurd to carry on with formalities, particularly after we've grown so familiar with each other. Don't you agree?"  
  
Ethan couldn't argue with that. He communicated his consent with another kiss. He pulled Dorian flush against him to do so, and marveled at the feel of the smooth, flat plane of flesh against his own muscled chest. Dorian wriggled his way free to graze Ethan's earlobe with his teeth. Ethan's eyes fluttered shut.  
  
"Tell me what you want," Dorian whispered, his breath hot on Ethan's neck.  
  
Ethan didn't answer. Couldn't answer. He wanted too much for words.  
  
Dorian pulled back to watch Ethan's throat bob in a nervous swallow. A beautiful sight, but Dorian had only so much patience, and the night was not as young as it had been. He was on the point of repeating his command when Ethan's lips parted.  
  
"You," said Ethan.  
  
With Ethan's eyes still screwed shut, Dorian felt safe in rolling his own. He'd been hoping for a little more novelty. He let the silence stretch between them as a petty punishment for Ethan's failure to amuse him. Ethan broke it, his words halting, forced out in gasps that wrung more than air from him.  
  
"I want you," said Ethan, "inside me."  
  
Dorian did not have time to correct his expression of shock before Ethan opened his eyes.  
  
At the sight of Dorian's wide eyes and parted lips, the shame Dorian had kissed away flooded Ethan's mind once more. He shook his head to clear it and stumbled back. He intended to flee the room entirely, but found Dorian's hand clenched around his wrist--an unexpectedly strong grip for such slender, delicate fingers.  
  
"Stay," said Dorian, who had replaced his shock with a gentle smile. "Your request should be easy enough to accommodate."  
  
Indeed, Dorian was eager to do so. He'd had men before--as many as money could buy--but that so wild a subject should crave subjugation... He was amused, to say the least, though he took care that Ethan should not see it.  
  
He relaxed his hold on Ethan's wrist. Ethan did not run.  
  
Ethan found he could not run, despite his every instinct screaming for him to do so. Dorian may have thought his request simple, but that was only because Dorian didn't know what had happened to the last boy caught inside Ethan.  
  
The memory came up unbidden and clouded Ethan's perception of the present. He knew only the smell of dry hay, the feel of cracked lips on his own, and a warm voice in his ear warning him of the pain but promising it would all be worth it.  
  
And it had been worth it, up to the point where they'd been discovered in the hayloft and torn apart.  
  
Ethan hadn't seen the other boy since. He had a feeling no one else had, either.  
  
But all that had been years ago--he'd been a boy himself at the time. Ethan didn't particularly feel like divulging any of those details, even to a host as accommodating as Dorian.  
  
The scent of Dorian's cologne snapped Ethan out of his memories. For while he was reminiscing, Dorian had closed the distance between them. Now they stood chest-to-chest, with Ethan's jaw cradled in Dorian's hands. Dorian pulled him down for another long, slow kiss. Ethan put up no resistance.  
  
"We might be more comfortable," Dorian murmured, "if we retired to my chambers."  
  
Ethan didn't care for comfort, but he allowed Dorian to lead him nonetheless.  
  
Dorian's chambers were, in a word, opulent. Thick velvet curtains hung heavy around a four-post bed the size of Ethan's entire lodgings. A fire was already burning in the hearth beneath the enormous onyx mantle. It cast a red flickering light over the dark wood panelling on the walls. For an instant, it reminded Ethan of hell. But Dorian's lips on his neck were too much like heaven for the illusion to last.  
  
They'd left their shirts behind in the portrait gallery. Dorian pushed Ethan backwards towards the bed--Ethan sat down on it, not quite deliberately, when the backs of his knees struck the edge of the mattress--and quickly divested him of his boots. He took more time with Ethan's trousers, stroking the inside of his still-clothed thighs and teasing at the outline of his trapped cock. Ethan could have howled with rage and need. He satisfied himself by pulling Dorian down into another breathless kiss.  
  
"Now," Ethan begged when they broke apart. He didn't have enough of his wits about him for much more than that.  
  
Dorian didn't ask him to elaborate, merely hooked his long fingers behind the buttons of Ethan's fly and pried them loose, one by one. Dorian pulled Ethan's trousers down to his knees. Ethan kicked them off the rest of the way and let his legs fall open to admit Dorian between them.  
  
Ethan could hardly bear having Dorian away from him for the time it had taken to get himself naked. Now that he'd admitted what he wanted, now that Dorian had torn that confession from him, he was seized with the irrational terror that they might be interrupted before the event could reach its natural conclusion  
  
Dorian felt no such hurry. When Ethan reached for his fly in turn, Dorian grabbed his wrists and brought them to his lips. He kissed the veins thrumming beneath the skin, watched Ethan's breath catch in his throat and his eyes darken with lust.  
  
"Please," Ethan whispered.  
  
Dorian grinned into Ethan's palm, then brought the hand down so he might press his lips to the rough knuckles.  
  
"Don't worry," said Dorian. "You'll get what I've promised you."  
  
He stepped away to undo his own trousers, keeping a careful and amused eye on the way Ethan's knuckles clenched to white around fisted handfuls of purple silk sheets. Once he'd discarded all further barriers to their joining, he retrieved a small cut-crystal bottle from the nightstand. He half-expected Ethan to question it, but he seemed to have dropped his façade of ignorance. Indeed, by the time Dorian returned to the bed, Ethan had rolled over onto his belly, his face hidden by folded arms, and lay prone, waiting for whatever Dorian chose to do with him.  
  
Evidently, this was not his first taste.  
  
Dorian bit back his laughter and uncorked the bottle. The scent of white heliotrope wafted up into the air. It caught Ethan's attention, and he turned his head to regard Dorian over his shoulder.  
  
"More cologne?" he said.  
  
Dorian shook his head. "Oil."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Ethan hesitated, then buried his face in his arms once more.  
  
Dorian poured out a little of the scented oil onto his hands, then set the bottle aside and put his hands to work on Ethan's shoulders. The muscles tensed--it seemed Ethan had not often known a gentle touch--but softened, slowly but surely, under Dorian's ministrations. Dorian ran his hands down Ethan's sides, feeling the muscles woven taught over the ribs, and smiled at the way Ethan's skin shivered beneath his fingertips.  
  
Ethan's ribs, sore from the beating he'd taken at the rat-catching pit, bloomed with pain at Dorian's touch. Ethan assumed this was by design, and shivered with anticipation.  
  
Finally, Dorian trailed down to Ethan's taut buttocks. Dorian groped them both firmly, then re-oiled his hands and slid one finger between them. Ethan held his breath and made no sound nor sign that he noticed the burning intrusion. Though it was hard not to yelp when he felt teeth on his backside.  
  
The one bite aside--he couldn't help himself, really, it was too perfect a specimen--Dorian prepared Ethan as tenderly and carefully as possible. Any fool could see Ethan wanted to get his over with, have his needs sated and go on his merry way, but Dorian had other ideas. Ideas of breaking down that rugged façade and making Ethan beg and writhe like the prettiest maryann. Or like he actually wanted it, at least.  
  
"Turn over," said Dorian. "I want to see your face."  
  
Ethan's shoulders tensed again--all Dorian's hard work, wasted--and he shot a questioning look back at Dorian. Dorian appeared unmoved.  
  
Slowly, hesitantly, Ethan rearranged himself to lie on his back, legs spread, knees bent, with Dorian looming over him. Dorian finished the work by pulling Ethan's knees up over his own shoulders. Ethan screwed his eyes shut and waited to be taken.  
  
"Open your eyes. Look at me."  
  
There was something ancient in that tone, far too commanding for one of such tender years. Ethan's eyes flew open almost before Dorian had finished speaking.  
  
Dorian smiled, slow and wicked. "Good."  
  
That was all the preamble Ethan got before Dorian shoved his way inside him.  
  
A kick of pain came with a wave of nausea rolling after it. It'd been too long since Ethan had done this. If he had a lick of sense, he'd tell the boy to slow down.  
  
He didn't.  
  
Dorian bore down with all his slender weight for the initial push. When it became apparent no further ground could be gained through force alone, he switched to small, shallow thrusts, worming his way into Ethan. His progress proved slow, yet unrelenting. There was barely time for Ethan to gasp in a breath as Dorian pulled back--then he was in him again, each thrust going further than the last until he was buried to the hilt, and his thrusts turned to a grinding motion that wore away at that indefinable spot deep inside Ethan and made him keen through gritted teeth.  
  
"You like that, then?" said Dorian lightly.  
  
Ethan growled something unintelligible in response.  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
" _Harder_."  
  
Ethan gasped a ragged breath into his lungs as Dorian dragged his cock out of him until only the head remained inside. Then he slammed back into him, snapping their hips together. The silk sheets slipped out of Ethan's fists as he scrambled for something to anchor him, to brace himself against the battering he'd asked for. Each thrust jabbed at the place inside him that made his cock twitch and his breath catch. He wanted more. Faster. He couldn't gather enough air to ask for it. He opened his mouth to make the attempt--and Dorian's lips locked onto his, Dorian's tongue was in his mouth, silencing him.  
  
Dorian struggled as well, though he took pains not to show it. Ethan was damnably tight--he'd nearly spent at the entrance, as Ethan gripped the head of his cock like a vise. The punishing pace he'd demanded, the push and pull on Dorian's cock, it was more than a mortal man could stand.  
  
Lucky not to be mortal, then, Dorian mused, a smirk ghosting across his face.  
  
Ethan's lips were moving. Dorian bent his ear towards them to catch their words. Indistinct at first, but then--  
  
"Fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me--"  
  
Dorian obliged him.  
  
The slap of his cock against Dorian's abdomen with each thrust was nearly enough to push Ethan over the edge. Nearly, but not quite. He gave up trying to brace himself and grabbed his cock in his fist. Before he could do anything more, Dorian's left hand released his knee and came down over his wrist like an iron manacle.  
  
"Not yet," he said.  
  
"Please," Ethan groaned. "I can't, I'm going to--"  
  
Dorian's fingers clenched. It pinched something in Ethan's wrist. His fist fell open reflexively. Dorian's replaced it with all the swiftness of a flash of sunlight in a stream.  
  
Dorian thrust inside him, Dorian's soft hands pulled on his cock, and Ethan came with a breathless howl. His vision blacked out. Blood rushed in his ears.  
  
He came back to himself with the taste of Dorian's lips on his own. Then it was gone, replaced by Dorian's teeth in his shoulder as his thrusts stuttered to a halt and his cock throbbed within him.  
  
Dorian collapsed on top of him, completely unconcerned with Ethan's comfort for the moment. He was hardly three-quarters of Ethan's size, after all. Surely the man could bear his weight.  
  
He rolled off eventually, pushing himself up to survey his handiwork. Ethan lay boneless, breathless, worn out and thoroughly used. Like an unwitting peasant caught up in a Bacchanal and abandoned, left to contend with the consequences. His eyes were shut. He might have been sleeping.  
  
Well, that was absinthe for you.  
  
Dorian laughed. Ethan's eyes opened.  
  
"What?" he said.  
  
"Do you know how you look now?" said Dorian.  
  
Color returned to Ethan's cheeks.  
  
"How?" And there, there was the rough edge Dorian had missed.  
  
Dorian cocked his head to one side, biting back a grin.  
  
"Primitive," he said. Then, "No. Honest."  
  
Ethan slapped the back of his hand against Dorian's breastbone. Dorian fell back laughing. 

 

* * *

  
  
Rude sunlight trickled in through the gap between the curtains and struck Ethan squarely in the eyes. He blinked his way awake and rolled his sore body over to greet his bedfellow.  
  
"'Morning, Brona," he murmured.  
  
Brona had turned away from him in her sleep. She clutched the sheets around her front, leaving her back bare. Ethan pressed a kiss to the smooth skin between her shoulderblades. She sighed deeply, still asleep, and rolled back towards him. The sheets fell from her chest, but Ethan was distracted by her face. Her face that was not her face. A young man's face.  
  
The recollection of last night's events slapped Ethan upside the skull with all the subtlety of a broken bottle. Memories of what he'd done--what he'd allowed Dorian to do to him--what he'd begged for--rose up in his mind, followed by bile rising in his throat.  
  
He needed to leave. He needed to escape. If he remained in this bed, in this house, for another instant, he couldn't answer for what he might do.  
  
To his relief, he found the enormous French windows opened easily enough. They were designed to keep intruders out, after all, not bar the occupants in.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
By the time Dorian woke at half-past ten the next morning, Mr. Ethan Chandler had entirely disappeared. No one among the staff could recall him leaving. The butler offered to organize a search party--it was entirely possible that Mr. Chandler had become lost in the immense house--but Dorian waved him off. What did he care that Mr. Chandler had left? Now that Dorian had experienced all he had to offer, there would be no point repeating the experience. The novelty had worn off. And repetition, as Dorian had expressed so many times, was unbearable.  
  
After a leisurely bath and a boring breakfast, Dorian crept silently down the long, dark, winding halls to the center of his modern labyrinth to view his favorite portrait. He expected to find some new sign of sin on the desiccated old thing--yellower teeth, perhaps, or knuckles yet more ravaged with rheumatism.  
  
He did not expect the four ragged claw marks that tore across the portrait's face, leaving deep crimson gashes in their wake.  
  
Dorian stared at the bright drops of blood that dripped down the hideous visage.  
  
"Curious," he said at last.  
  
He reached out to touch the wounds, and felt nothing.


End file.
